


Santa Cecilia's Easter Mass Incident

by Tomatosoupful



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: AU, AU of an AU, Adaptation of an Internet Story, Catholic Church - Freeform, Coco Locos Fool Off, Gen, Humor, Mild Dirty Humor, Religion, Swearing, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 08:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18656860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomatosoupful/pseuds/Tomatosoupful
Summary: AU One-Shot based off Pengychan's fake Priest AU "Nuestra Iglesia."Ernesto, Héctor and Imelda are perfectly reasonable and logical adults ...which is exactly why they were going to ruin Father John's Easter Sunday and take back their church.Adaptation of the Internet story "The 1969 Easter Mass Incident."





	Santa Cecilia's Easter Mass Incident

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nuestra Iglesia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716262) by [PengyChan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan). 



> Prompt: “What…what exactly is that?”  
> Guess who forgot to include a prompt but managed to find a place to stick it in after the fic was published.

“That …doesn’t look right.”

Héctor grimaced. “They don’t even look healthy.”

Beside him, Padre Ernesto examined the pile of wafers. Tomorrow’s weekly communion would be severely lacking in purpose if the symbolic body of Jesus Christ failed to show up. However, it looked as though it was going to be a very lonely ceremony as each and every wafer was green with mould. Padre Ernesto and Héctor had stared at the spoiled wafers, then each other, then back to the ruined Hosts.

Finally, Héctor awkwardly tried to lighten the mood. “I suppose we could sell them as one-way tickets to Heaven?”

It was a terribly inappropriate joke but at least the Padre had a good laugh. Then the humour of the situation quickly cooled off when the issue of supplying tomorrow’s communion didn’t solve itself like both men had hoped. They thought over their dwindling options. The sun had already fallen, every shop had closed for the day and there wasn’t a back-up supply in sight. All the two found was an explanation for the rot with a water leakage. A sense of dread weighed on Héctor’s shoulders.

“What do we do? The townsfolk won’t be happy.”

Padre Ernesto glared at the useless wafers as though they had personally insulted his mother. He then turned to Héctor and asked tiredly, “I suppose some wine would help?”

“Does communion count if it’s only half?”

“I’m talking about us.”

* * *

 

Half an hour later found them in the kitchen.

Imelda, who had been passing by, noticed their drinking of holy wine and was suitably affronted until Héctor had told her the situation. Then she grabbed a glass for herself. “We can’t _not_ serve the townspeople,” she stated as though it was a law written within nature itself.

Héctor slouched in his seat. “We can’t serve them those wafers either.”

Not if they wanted the whole town rioting against them or the gringo throwing a fit. That was the last thing Ernesto needed. As he sipped his wine, he absent-mindedly ran his eyes over the kitchen. It was standard for a local church in a small town. It wasn’t special but that wasn’t needed to make good food like, say, bread. “Does it have to be wafers?” he asked.

“We can’t serve them more wine,” Héctor insisted uncomfortably.

“I wasn’t –”

“I could cook something,” Imelda offered.

That was exactly what Ernesto wanted to hear. Seeing the surprised but pleased expression lighting up his face, Imelda continued. “I know how to make wedding cookies. My Abuelita’s recipe. I could bake some up and serve them tomorrow.”

Ernesto clapped his hands together and grinned. “Brilliant!”

 _Finally, some good fucking food_ , he thought.

Héctor was also on board with the idea, though a flicker of doubt momentarily wondered if Jesus would approve of such a thing. The wafers were meant to be tasteless and unpleasant, much like the gringo himself. However, Imelda assured him that Jesus loved his children and what better way to treat your followers than sweet bread? It was settled then. The three worked together under Imelda’s guidance and baked a batch of wedding cookies that would make a hardened solider cry.

The next day, it had only taken a curious sniff for the older townsfolk to know whose recipe they were about to snack on. Those familiar with Imelda’s Abuelita’s cooking confronted the meaning of temptation as they fought to eat the holy body of Christ with the demeanour of a guilty Catholic. Meanwhile, those unfamiliar figured Padre Ernesto had finally learnt his Latin and properly blessed the wafers this time. Regardless, the church doors opened once the ceremony was over, and the townsfolk merrily gathered outside to swap gossip, complain about politics and especially gush over the delicious Hosts.

Ernesto, Héctor and Imelda stayed back to congratulate each other on a job well done. A few cookies were leftover and the three nibbled on them without a care in the world until they noticed the gringo approaching them, and promptly choked. Juan – John if Ernesto felt like being polite, which he didn’t – stomped right up to them, whiter than usual and the cross hanging around his neck clutched in a trembling hand.

It had clearly taken all of Juan’s energy to keep his tone and wording as polite and respectful as his heritage expected when he said to Ernesto, “May I speak with you for a moment? Privately.”

Ernesto would have rather eaten every last rotten wafer. He considered making a run for it but behind him, Imelda gently nudged him forward. As he followed Juan out of the church, he glanced back to his companions. He supposed this was what Jesus’ apostles must have looked like when he was dragged to his death.

Despite the closed door and shut windows, Ernesto was certain every man and his rooster heard Juan’s strangled cry, “ ** _The Holy Body of Jesus Christ is not made up of rainbow sprinkles_**!”

* * *

 

As soon as Padre Ernesto stomped into the room, Imelda’s question on damage control failed to move past her lips. The dark irritation marring the man’s otherwise charming face said everything. So, Imelda approached him with the final cookie as an offering, all while Héctor watched with concern.

“That bad huh?” she asked.

Ernesto almost launched into whatever rant he had been holding together when he noticed the cookie, accepted it with a nod of appreciation, then got rolling again. “Who the hell does he think he is?!”

Héctor and Imelda winced. They were the perfect audience as Ernesto listed off every single thing wrong with the gringo. By the time night had long since settled in, Ernesto had moved on to how unreasonable the gringo was and how he was demanding them to make the whole town sick with bad wafers.

“I doubt he meant that,” Héctor defended.

Imelda rolled her eyes.

“He might as well have!” Ernesto snapped back. “He’s just – I can’t –” he also couldn’t bring himself to speak anymore. He pulled out a chair and slouched in it, finally letting the rant come to an end. With a tired sigh, he rested an arm over his closed eyes. It was the first time Héctor and Imelda had ever seen Ernesto voluntarily stop talking.

In the silence, there was a sense of bitter failure. As though an army had made a valiant attempt to win a battle, only to suffer a humiliating loss. Imelda noticed Héctor watching her with worry, no doubt feeling her frustration. She could only count herself lucky that she had been spared the long gruelling lecture, but she still had to endure the gringo insulting her Abuelita’s recipe. As if _he_ knew anything about food. Thinking about it made her blood boil and just like that, there was suddenly a drive to push back. Hard.

The chair creaked as Imelda moved it out of the way. Then she slammed her palms on the table, catching the men’s attention. Héctor especially straightened his back, awaiting with bated breath for her announcement. Something within her heated up, appreciating how much focus he had on her, which only intensified her determination as she said, “This isn’t his church. It’s ours, and we’ll run it the way we like it. If we say Jesus Christ is made of rainbow sprinkles, then he _is_ made of rainbow sprinkles.”

Héctor frowned, most likely still feeling ashamed but Ernesto relaxed in his chair and allowed a smirk as he said, “He’s just upset the townsfolk enjoyed it so much.”

“And why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves?” Imelda challenged passionately.

Héctor opened his mouth.

“Don’t answer that,” Imelda said shortly. Héctor shrugged sheepishly. She continued with the energy of a politician standing before her people. “I’ll face him next week if I have to, because _I’m_ going to cook up another one of my Abuelita’s famous recipes whether he likes it or not. Understand?”

Héctor’s frown had shifted slightly to one of consideration. He had a kind soul but underneath it, Imelda was very much aware of his trickster side that got along splendidly with her twin brothers. It just needed a little coaxing out of its hidey hole, then given something to play with.

Ernesto cleared his throat. “There’s no wafers for next week, are there?”

Imelda grimaced and nothing more needed to be said.

Brightly, Héctor suggested, “Why don’t you bake them? The wafers?”

Technically, it wasn’t a bad idea. In fact, it was the more logical one and would save everyone a ton of grief. However, Imelda respected herself enough to never bake something so tasteless, it was an insult to her heritage, and therefore refused without a second thought.

“But it’s Easter next week,” Héctor insisted. “If we ruin it, Padre John won’t be happy.”

At once, Imelda and Ernesto flatly answered, “So?” they shared wicked grins. If this ship was going to sink, then they were going to ensure it went down in a spectacular fashion.

“Who says we’re ruining it?” Ernesto added.

While Héctor tiredly groaned, Imelda reiterated, “It’s our church and we’ll celebrate Easter our way.”

As though Ernesto had been shocked with electricity, he shot out of his seat. Invigorated by the call to action, he said, “You’re right! This will be our Easter. We should do something special. Like…”

Imelda and Héctor learned forward curiously. “Like?” she prompted.

Ernesto finally landed on an idea and enthusiastically said, “Ah-ha! We should do a re-enactment! A bit of trauma is perfect for community bonding.”

There was a moment of silence and at no point did Ernesto’s pride in his idea waver. He knew it was brilliant. Imelda hadn’t expected their act of rebellion to grow any further than some imagination in the bread department but …there wasn’t anything wrong with re-enacting the death of Christ. It was appropriate at the very least. Noticing Héctor going along with it, Imelda confirmed her approval too.

“But who will play Jesus?” she asked thoughtfully, a finger pressed against her lip in concentration. Ernesto threw up his hand. “You have to conduct the ceremony, _Padre_.”

Said Padre’s hand fell miserably.

Soon, the three focused on solving their casting problem. Imelda paced the room, sorting through every possible person in town. Ernesto draped himself dramatically over a chair, his hair in disarray as he dragged his fingers through it trying to think. Meanwhile, Héctor was seated like a normal human being but was tapping a knuckle against the table, making a little tune as though the creative bursts of song writing would give him an answer. A few times Imelda saw Héctor prepare to speak up only to lose the courage and back down. Whatever it was it couldn’t be _that_ bad…could it? Imelda recalled the time Héctor had accidentally caused a hole in the orphanage’s roof in an attempt to crack a joke. The only cracking done that day was his right leg bone… on second thought, Héctor running over his plans before suggesting them was an excellent example of character growth. The Lord would be proud.

After a few more minutes, Imelda and Ernesto began swapping possible Jesus’.

“We are _not_ having Gustavo.”

Imelda gave him a look. “I’d never commit an unforgivable sin. I would hope your opinion of me was higher than that.”

Awkwardly, Ernesto fumbled. “Just in case… what about one of your brothers?”

“ _No_.”

“How about both?”

“Absolutely not. They’d be a disaster.”

“That’s what we want.”

“It wouldn’t be the right kind of disaster.” There was no doubt in Imelda’s mind the church would be nothing but a pile of ashes if her brothers had the chance to express their …creativity.

Almost clawing his hair out, Ernesto started irritably, “Alright. How about we try –?”

“Bread?”

“– Cheech – wait, what?”

Their heads shot to Héctor’s direction, who shrank under their puzzled gaze. Imelda wasn’t even sure if she’s heard him correctly. “…Pardon?” she eventually asked.

The poor young man shrugged helplessly and defended himself in a fumbled mixture of awkwardness and bemusement, “How about you – now, hear me out – why do don’t you just… _bake_ a bread…a bread…” his hands gripped nervously at his collar.

“…Jesus?” Imelda finished for him, her voice cracking slightly, unable to believe she was hearing this.

Ernesto’s voice was similar, although bearing a hint of amusement, “A _bread_ Jesus?”

Gradually Héctor was building a firmer resolve to sell his suggestion. Confidently he reasoned, “You said you wanted a disaster.”

Immediately, Imelda opened her mouth dismiss it. Not _that_ kind of disaster. However, a stray question flew across her mind: _what kind of disaster was she looking for then?_ And when she couldn’t determine an answer that fit the criteria, she found the image of a bread Jesus invading her mind and tempting her. Oh. Oh no. She was seriously considering this …

It _would_ be killing two birds with one stone. The townsfolk would be fed, Jesus would have a presence. He would literally be bread for once, that’s unique. How many churches can claim that? A part of Imelda that sounded a lot like her Mamá was furiously rejecting such a thing but …a much louder part of her, still angry with the gringo, knew exactly what she wanted.

With an audible sigh of acceptance, Imelda sent Héctor a nod and a smile. Seeing Héctor’s joyous grin was worth her decision. Then, they turned to Ernesto. As soon as he realised all eyes were on him, he stated with the confidence of the Pope’s fierce faith in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit: “Fucking go for it.”

* * *

 

A week before Easter, they held a secret rehearsal.

Those in on the plan gathered in the church one drowsy afternoon while Juan was in town, most likely bothering people or reading the Bible for fun or walking on water or whatever men like him did in their spare time. Ernesto didn’t care, especially after their ‘discussion.’ He was far more interested in the magnificent doughy creature laid out before him on a table.

It was titled Bread-Jesus, and everyone quickly gave the sign of the cross just in case the Father, Son and Holy Spirit were aghast with their actions. The first to recover was Sofia, who had leapt at the opportunity to build Jesus in her image. She proudly showed off the attention to detail she and Imelda had dedicated to making Bread-Jesus the best Host he could be. Ernesto eagerly leaned closer, his mouth watering at the smell of freshly baked bread. He admired the braided strands of dough and the lines drawn by a knife to imitate sideburns. Overall, he was impressed but noticed a few oddities. He knocked a knuckle against the hardened torso and said, puzzled, “He’s got an eight pack?”

Imelda’s expression flattened but Sofia answered confidently, “Christ needs those muscles to carry the Cross, right?”

“I …suppose,” Ernesto conceded. If that was what Sofia liked. He then pointed to the smiling face Bread-Jesus was wearing. “He looks a little too happy about dying.”

“Miguel asked. I couldn’t say no,” Imelda answered.

Behind her, the kid sheepishly grinned. “It’s a celebration! Everyone should be happy right?”

“…Right.”

Then, finally, Ernesto addressed the tea-towel draped around Bread-Jesus’ hips. “Is he …?” Ernesto pulled up the towel the check. His eyebrows rose and then he slowly glanced back towards the bakers.

Imelda sighed roughly, refusing to meet his eye. Next to her, Sofia shrugged. “He’s the Son of God. A man. With all that it entails.” She smirked.

Shaking her head as if in great shame, Imelda mumbled, “He may have also burnt down there.”

Ernesto had no idea how, but he let the matter go, gently placing the towel back down. It left a suspiciously large bulge that had a few men in their presence frowning. When Sofia’s smirk widened, Ernesto wondered what other kinds of _detail_ the dedicated nun had gifted Jesus. He didn’t get the chance to explore further when rehearsals properly began. Bread-Jesus was nailed to the cross and the display was hung like a ridiculous decoration. It reminded Ernesto of the heads of dead animals lining the walls of wealthy homes.

Everything went fine all things considered. Even the stabbing of Bread-Jesus. Ernesto hadn’t expected tall and skinny Héctor to actually manage to throw the spear fiercely enough to pierce Jesus’ stomach but – the spear bounced softly on impact – there you go. However, Imelda eyed the torn hole left behind and noted her brothers and Miguel had failed to splash the wine high enough to give the image of a bloodied injury.

“Does it _really_ matter?” Oscar complained.

“ _Yes_ ,” Imelda stressed. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to fix either.”

Felipe excitedly hopped over to his sister, sensing incoming chaos, and soon the three siblings were whispering between each other, surrounding and analysing the Bread-Jesus like a pack of vultures. Something in Ernesto almost wanted to reach over and save the poor bastard from whatever machinations those three were planning. But they wouldn’t let him. They wouldn’t even tell what idea they had decided. Imelda just gave Ernesto a pleased smile and told him they would handle it.

Ernesto would not sleep well that night.

However, the meeting continued forth and once it was determined that Easter Sunday was going to be a shit show like never seen before, the cast and crew for the impending disaster gradually left the church, leaving only Ernesto, Héctor and Imelda left to clean up. They decided the church’s pigeons deserved a celebratory feast to make up for the harassment they dealt with daily from Cheech’s rooster.

As the three spread the crumbs across the grounds and the pigeons went wild, the three basked in their success. The Mass hadn’t even started yet and it already felt like they had won.

* * *

 

The church was as full as the local tavern on a weekend night. Every person across Santa Cecilia squeezed themselves into the space. The creak of the wooden pews from the weight were in sync with the shuffling of feet and the mild chatter of family and friends. Gradually, over the course of a few minutes, the atmosphere went from calm and casual to anticipation as it became apparent that Padre Ernesto looked _too_ excited for Mass. Even for Easter Sunday Mass.

From the back, hidden away, Héctor overheard two old ladies huddled together like penguins conjuring theories as to what Padre Ernesto was planning. He wanted to sneak over and kindly ask them to keep quiet in case Padre John overheard and took action. It would also be nice if Ernesto could control himself but that was clearly asking for too much. Héctor waited anxiously for the significant hour to strike and signal the beginning of Easter Sunday Mass.

**_Ding-Dong!_ **

Héctor exhaled heavily. _Thank the Lord and Saviour._

Relieved, he stayed in the shadows and watched as the ceremony began. Padre Ernesto performed his role perfectly, like an actor on stage. Even Padre John, who was seated in the front row, appeared to be reluctantly impressed with the level of sophistication …thus far. Héctor felt a stirring of guilt for playing such a major role in what would undoubtedly take a few years off the gringo’s life but …

“What…what exactly is that?” someone whispered in terror. 

There were a chorus of gasps as Bread Jesus 2.0 was dragged into the church by Oscar, Felipe and Miguel – the Roman soldiers. Padre John looked over his shoulder at the commotion and immediately his calm face split into one of absolute horror as though he’d witnessed the Devil stroll in. Héctor bit his tongue to swallow a bout of laughter. Across the church stood Imelda and Sofia both struggling to keep a straight face.

Apart from those aware of the impending disaster, every occupant in the church was experience varying levels of shock. From the smallest toddler who kept tugging their Mamá’s sleeve asking if she saw, did she see the bread Jesus? To the eldest man who took his glasses off, spat and rubbed them firmly with a handkerchief and then placed them back in position, only to shake his head in disbelief that his eyes weren’t as broken as he thought they were.

Out from the ocean of concerned and confused mumbling and gasping came the piercing sound of Padre John suddenly trying to stand. For a brief moment, Héctor thought the gringo was going to shout the house down, with the way he looked like a viscous chihuahua baring its teeth, but the stares of the townspeople made him freeze. The power of peer pressure enhanced by a society of manners and public image spurred on by centuries of tradition kept Padre John in his seat and his distress locked in tight.

Oscar and Felipe, who had paused in their walk down the aisle with Bread-Jesus, finally felt compelled to continue their journey again. Behind them, Miguel followed along, smiling brightly to his fellow orphans. Many of the children were wide-eyed with amazement and jealousy.

Eventually, after what felt like 40 days and 40 nights had passed by, Bread-Jesus arrived before Ernesto, who was trying his hardest to avoid meeting Padre John’s burning gaze. Instead, he concentrated on the torture Bread-Jesus was forced to endure. First, he was nailed to the cross. The perfectly baked bread crackled nicely as the nails were driven in. Abeultias nodded with pride, that Imelda knew how to cook. Then, the whipping began. Everyone was utterly captivated as Oscar and Miguel splashed glasses of wine onto the deformed creature with its cheery smiley face, all while Felipe whipped it. Every snap made the whole crowd flinch, although there were a few giggles when one whip broke off a few pieces of noodle hair. By the end of the torture session, Padre Ernesto had the biggest shit-eating grin Héctor had ever seen and Padre John was visibly shaking in his seat.

Next was – Héctor exhaled, ready for action and steadying his spear – Longinus. The Roman who stabbed the Son of God. It was an important part of the ceremony and had to be done with the right amount of vigour and dedication. Which is exactly why Héctor gathered all of his speed and sprinted down the aisle, the spear held high, and yelling the very Latin phrases Padre John had given up his time to teach him. He heard people crying out in surprise, those closest to the aisle leaning right back in fear, as he shot by them. Then, at the right moment, he flung the spear directly at Bread-Jesus’s stomach and –

It missed.

The spear landed directly in … Héctor felt his face blush as the crowd ooh-ed and ah-ed at the spear jutting out of Bread-Jesus’ groin, pointed high in an unfortunately inappropriate manner. Oscar and Felipe threw their hands over Miguel’s eyes. Then, to Héctor building anxiety, Bread-Jesus’ groin suddenly exploded from the stab wound. Hot steaming red coloured jam spurted out of the ripped hole and splattered loudly on the floor. In that moment, the squishy mess of jam drippling from between Bread-Jesus’ legs was the loudest sound in the world.

Oh. Right. Jesus needed to look like he was bleeding… so that’s what Imelda meant. Wonderful. Héctor really wanted to swiftly turn around and escape but the same social pressure that kept Padre John in his seat – despite his furious sputtering – also had Héctor’s ankles frozen in place. He noticed Sofia’s arms were wrapped around her torso, desperately trying to contain her laughter without breaking a rib. Beside her was Imelda.

Imelda …

There was an awkward _plop_ noise when the large bulge underneath Bread-Jesus’ towel dropped to the ground. Every head in the church lowered in sync. Imelda suddenly looked very tired. Héctor could just make out Padre John practically choking with horror and fury underneath Cheech’s unapologetic chuckling. He had hoped that Ernesto would learn to read the room already and move the ceremony on, but the man just kept staring, as if unsure how to respond to the mess.

Silently between the two of them, Héctor reiterated with a glare: _You wanted a disaster_.

Padre Ernesto stiffly nodded. He clapped his hands together and with a forced smile said, “ _Anyway_ …”

Next, he directed Oscar, Felipe and Miguel to lower Bread-Jesus. As the deformity was prepared for the townsfolk, Padre Ernesto kicked the bread genitalia under the alter hoping no one would notice.

Everyone did.

Héctor’s face felt like he had been thrown into the pits of Hell for taking part in this whole ordeal. He impatiently stood as Padre Ernesto invited everyone up with the Last Oration. “Thou, O God, has kindly allowed us to have a part in this Holy Sacrifice; for this we give Thee thanks. Accept it now to Thy glory and be ever mindful of our weakness. Amen.”

Héctor had thought no one was going to move but Cheech leapt off his chair and marched over, ripping a piece of Bread-Jesus, taking a swig of the wine and carrying on as if it was a normal ceremony. Héctor’s tense shoulders relaxed, feeling great fondness for the old man. Cheech’s willingness opened the flood gates and one by one each town member approached and took their piece of body and blood.

There were the soft sounds of sobs and begs for forgiveness as people wetly consumed the bread – it was just too delicious. Héctor and Imelda accepted their servings together and as they gratefully chewed, they both knew that regardless of what had just happened, all of their sins were forgiven now. Thanks Jesus.

However, Padre Ernesto went rigid when Padre John stormed up to him, one of the last to get his Host. Even though the three of them had not known the gringo for very long, they suspected this was the worst they had ever see him and hopefully, ever will. Which was why Héctor’s stomach sank with dread when Ernesto offered up the bread genitalia and whispered to Padre John, “So… no hard feelings ri –?”

The crudely shaped Host was smacked out of Ernesto’s hand. When it hit the ground, jam splattered out of its tip. Surprised and a little intrigued, Héctor slowly turned to Imelda who was looking extremely embarrassed.

“…Okay,” Ernesto said, stepping back and allowing the gringo to take his Host and leave.

* * *

 

After everything was over, the three found themselves back with the pigeons. The grey birds fluttered and hooted merrily as they were fed.

“Well…” Ernesto announced. “That was something.”

And wonderfully baked bread was perfect for celebration.

**Author's Note:**

> Does this count as cheating? Sure hope not.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it. Notice how I had no clue how to end it?


End file.
